


The God

by GodOfCats



Series: Fanatic Fiction [1]
Category: Multi-Fandom
Genre: Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 22:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfCats/pseuds/GodOfCats
Summary: Sort of inspired by Bloodborne. A short story about a brutal monster and the hunter sent to kill it.





	The God

Blood streaks the alleyways. Splattered and instantly dried. Soaked into the walls. Scorched into the ground. Every surface coated in a thick paint of red-browns and charcoal-black. The churning feeling in the pit of my stomach, the seasick sloshing and turning, is almost as visual as it is olfactory. Every sense is being assaulted. I can see strands of hair fused with the brickwork. I can smell viscera and death in the air. I can feel the most fragile remains of burn crunch under my boots. I can taste iron and smoke coating my throat. The closest I can come to a comforting thought is that whatever came through here lacked as much hesitation as it did mercy. They… How many were there? Ten? Twenty? Good lord… They were lucky enough to not have to suffer long. Was it mere pragmatism? Or was it a show of power? I bend down and wipe the soot between by fingers. It crumbles between the friction of leather, threatening to ignite once again. I fall into a kneeling position and say a quick prayer for the departed. I was never religious before and it’d be a lie to say I truly am now, but they say that any kind of simple ritual helps us keep our minds and this is the only way I know to honour the dead. Though, being honest, the relief I feel comes more from following protocol than the spiritual aspect of the act. I straighten up and wipe the grime off my trousers. Before I move on, I check my side and my back. The blade is in its sheath. The gun is in its carrying case. I can feel their weight on me at all moments, but it is also procedure to perform a check before advancing into potentially dangerous territory. This too helps to calm my nerves.

It is rare, I think as I follow the wreckage left in the creatures wake, for an infected to grow this strong. It is not unheard for those born of Dreamer’s Disease to have the strength to face a small army in combat. They have shown me the results of Paradise Lost, the bodies and the rubble. However, the wicked are rarely so adept. Psychological limitations crafted by divine rules, they call it. From birth the wicked are imbued with weaknesses, blindspots, that are expertly crafted to leave them vulnerable to the good. From the moment they hatch from their chrysalis, for all their strength, very few will ever pose a threat to the righteous. 

I do not believe this is propaganda. My experience has served only to validate this.

However, there are the few exceptions. Those who could only have been crafted by the devil himself. Born from malicious intent. Designed only in service of nihilism, to punish those who believe themselves to be beyond despair. They are, again, rare. So rare as to be legends. Myths. Boogeymen. Even so, they exist. And while most can drift through life in denial, there are the unlucky few who will be punished for their wilful ignorance.

I grip the rough grip of my blade. My hands no longer shake, but I have a long time to go before I can still my heart. Despite this, I press onward. Witnesses witnessed a blinding light erupt from the alleyway and a figure dash forth at unimaginable speed. That must have been when it dispatched of the retrieval squad. Those same witnesses believe it to be down the path I’m currently walking. I don’t doubt it. The smell and the damage more or less confirm it.

What bothers me, however, is that the witness accounts describe the infected as humanoid. Already irregular, its shape takes it beyond being simply aberrant. It is practically unheard of for a wicked of this magnitude to take a human shape. Draconic, satanic, eldritch… Writhing, wriggling masses of flesh and bone and otherworldly matter… Flailing tentacles, daggered tails and razor teeth… Creatures foul and deadly ripped directly from human nightmares, yes. That would describe almost the entirety of the wicked that pose such a threat to humanity. Certainly, there are some… Many… Which look and talk like us. That could almost pose us the uninfected. But they suffer the greatest from the aforementioned psychological limitations. Only the very smallest few break the single digits with their body count. Certainly, I cannot rule out the evidence before me, but I have never heard of a humanoid wicked that can end life as quickly and as simply as drawing breath.

Could I have made a miscalculation?

Perhaps it is a creature that changes shape. Perhaps it is simply assuming a human form.

But somehow I doubt it.

I am on the cusp of discovering something new. Of witnessing something not meant for my eyes. Of facing something I cannot fight. That is what my gut is screaming at me. Should I turn back? Should I return with a group, a partner, anything but facing it alone? And yet I push forward. My legs will me forward. I feel a fear that I have not felt since I witnessed the first cases of the disease. Left first and then right, I march towards my death. Because I know that in the time it would take to get backup, even in those few moments, ten more… A hundred more… Dear god, what am I looking to face?

But the righteous always win.

From the very beginning, that has been the code carved into the minds of the wicked. To change the rules so late into the game would be absurd. Would be unheard of.

I turn the corner and water splashes onto my boots. It runs off in little drops and splatters against the ground. This is foreshadowing, isn’t it… My heart whispers to my brain, but I ignore it. Push on. I am the righteous. I am an emblem of humanity.

I stop.

The creature is in front of me. As reported, it is human in shape. Crouched down… No. Sitting cross legged as if in meditation. No, not as if in meditation. Its back is straight and its head is held up. It is alert, poised like a dog at the sound of a doorbell. It’s waiting. Waiting for what?

It pulls itself up and my question is answered. It has been waiting for me. It’s obvious, but my first instinct is to reject it. To disbelieve. We are trained, first and foremost, in stealth. We are as silent as a human can be. But that means nothing to the thing before me. It turns around and I can see the blood that has stained and splattered its clothes and body. A rough cloth _gi_ with a Japanese symbol emblazoned on it, torn to reveal the immense muscular physique of the thing. At first glance, it looks like a man. Tall, but not enough to be a giant, with long hair that stabs the sky in golden swords. But one look into its eyes will tell you that what you see is no human being. They are innocent, like a child. As naive and earnest as one. And as callous. The creature speaks in a high, youthful voice.

“Are you strong?”

A single question.

A single question that spells out its entire character.

A single question that captures its entire motivation.

I waste no time in unloading the full magazine of my gun, bullets flying beyond the speed of sound. They rip through the air with pinpoint precision. Towards the heart, towards the stomach, towards the head. But instead of flesh, they strike brick and embed themselves deeply into the wall. With the comfort of dodging a ball… No, with the ease of simply sidestepping the worlds slowest punch, it steps out of the way. It laughs cheerfully, as carefree as can be.

I go to draw the blade, but the second my hand goes to the grip the creature has grabbed my wrist. My fingers grab uselessly at the air, until a sharp crack is heard and they go limp. I turn my eyes down and see that bone has pierced skin. I feel weakness creep into my legs, my stomach, my eyes… But no pain. My body is screaming but its all instinct, a logical response to the situation.

I can’t even comprehend the pain.

I curse and pull backwards the second the creature releases me. I stagger slightly, my legs are fighting me now. But I keep my balance by cursing out the thing in front of me. This too is a technique they teach you. Keeping your legs before that which was not meant to be is essential. Keeping your cool is essential. To live is essential.

The creature looks at me with a strange mixture of disappointment and pity in its eyes. It sighs audibly and holds up his hands in a circular shape. A light, brighter than any moon, sun or star, begins to shine in the space between its hands.

Kame…

With my remaining hand, I grab my blade and unsheathe it. A long and rough flattened blade, more akin to a guillotine or a razor, slides out. The light begins to swirl into an almost physical orb.

Hame…

With a screech to the heavens, the last dregs of my strength, I hurl the blade at the creature before me. More launched than thrown, visibly ripping a wound in space, it speeds towards its target as the light continues to grow.

Ha!

The beast lets out an almighty roar and pushes forward the light with both hands. The immense power… A blinding and burning heat the likes of which I could never imagine… Envelops me and explodes. Pustules of flesh sizzle and burst, bone cracks under the strain, I can’t even scream. This must be what it’s like to enter the centre of the sun. Even blinded, I can see that my blade… My trusted weapon… Is rendered to nothing but molten metal and ash… No. Not even that. It is entirely erased. As if it had never existed. And I… My body. My body is rendered to ash and dust and smeared across the concrete in another splattering of black and red paint.

Ahaha. And even as I die. I can’t help but wonder how the wicked overcame the righteous.

The figure walks over the patch where a person once stood. There is nothing there now. It bends down and scrapes some of the dirt up. It rubs it between its fingers, feeling the flakes of skin and soil now inseparable from one another against its skin. It sniffs. Its stomach growls. All the smell means to it is the memory of barbecue. It shakes its head and its eyes fade to dull boredom.

Walking away from the scene, this being of immense and godlike strength, wanders off into the night.


End file.
